DayGlo Switchblade
by electricskeptic
Summary: A smile means somebody wants something. A tear means that they crave attention. A laugh means they want to be noticed. Neon/Ultra, slight Howard/Vince if you squint.


The Mighty Boosh and all of its affiliated characters etc belong to Noel Fielding, Julian Barratt, and Babycow Productions. No copyright infringement is intended, and I'm not making any money from this. Don't sue me, I'm skint. I also don't own Bonnie and Clyde or Romeo and Juliet, sadly.

**Author's Ramblings: **This is my first attempt at writing sex of a more graphic nature, so apologies if it's a bit crap. I feel slightly less perverted because of the fact that it's girls and not men, but there's still a part of me that feels as though I need a really long, hot shower after writing this. Also, a lot of this links with chapter seven of Threads, though you don't have to have read that.

Song is Stockholm Syndrome by Muse, one of favourites. Lyrics courtesy of LyricsDomain(dot)com.

For Violence, who loves these two as much as I do. Hope this pleases you, my darling.

**WARNINGS: **Femslash, frequent strong language, strong sexual scenes, knifeplay, violence, drug references, self-harm, suicide and character death. I'm sorry - I try, God knows I try, but everything I touch just seems to turn to tragedy. Anyway, the rating is there for a reason; please do not read if you think it's going to offend you.

- - - - - X - - - - -

**Day-Glo Switchblade**

_I won't stand in your way  
__Let your hatred grow  
__And she'll scream,  
__And she'll shout,  
__And she'll pray  
__And she had a name  
__Yeah, she had a name._

When we meet, it's sparks and fireworks. An explosion. A collision. A chemical reaction between two highly volatile cocktails, shaking us up and inevitably bonding us together.

I'm alone. Always alone, that's the way I am. That's the way I choose to be, a wanderer, a drifter, totally independent. I don't need anyone else. People can only hurt you. People are sly and manipulative, their every move calculated _just so, _in order to get what they're after. A smile means somebody wants something. A tear means that they crave attention. A laugh means they want to be noticed. Every single emotion, catalogued and planned and ordered, a tool just waiting for somebody to pick it up and use it.

And they all do. Like lemmings over a cliff, they all do.

The night-time is when I come alive. In the day, I hide, hide from all the people, all the pain. But when the sun goes down, it's different. When the sun goes down and the sky turns black, I feel like I can do something, soothe some of the hurt. I'm not trying to be a hero, or a martyr, far from it. Recognition is the one thing I've never, ever wanted. I'm just trying to give something back to a world that's so fucked up, it causes me physical pain to witness it.

A scream. Comes from maybe twenty feet away, the sight blocked by trees. Before I know it, I'm on my feet, running, running, my legs pumping beneath me, so hard I feel as though the pressure on my muscles is enough to break my bones. Adrenaline pours like vodka through my veins, keeping me going. It's always a thrill. I can't deny that I get off on this. I'm not a liar. If there's one thing I fucking well hate above everything else in this sorry excuse for a world, it's people who lie, who don't even have the guts to face the truth.

There's a woman. And a man. Well, ain't there always? She's on the ground, and he's on top of her, holding her down. Trying to get her out of her dress. She whimpers and cries and struggles, but it's pathetic, really, hopeless. Maybe it's shameful to admit it, but a part of me thinks women like her almost deserve what's coming to them, women who don't have the balls to stand their ground and fight, who just lie down and take it. But the man, the man doesn't just annoy me, he makes my blood boil, makes me want to rip his throat out with my bare hands. People like him make me sick, who think women are weak and therefore it's okay to take advantage. I'll teach the bastard a fucking lesson.

"Is there a problem, here?" I ask, stepping into view. She whimpers again. He doesn't even look up.

"Piss off, lady, this ain't your problem. We're just having a private discussion, is all."

"Don't look like there's much talking going on to me." I mime looking around. "Don't look very private, either. In fact, it looks to me like you're forcing the damsel in distress here to do things she don't wanna do. So I'd say that _makes _it my problem, wouldn't you?"

The man laughs, as though he can't quite work out what's going on. "Look, bitch, I don't know what the hell your problem is, but why don't you just be on your way and try to stay out of things that ain't got nothin' to do with you?"

Stupid animal. Animal instinct. Animal mind. My hand twitches in nervous anticipation, longing to hold the knife that hangs at my belt. But I can't. Not yet. Got to give the guy a chance, first. Before I stab him up.

"Why don't you just let her go, and no-one needs to get hurt." I suggest, reasonably enough.

He throws back his head and laughs again, a shrill, barking laugh that rebounds of trees and echoes all around. Then he climbs off his conquest and advances on me, slowly, slowly. I expect he thinks he looks menacing. Ha! I hold my ground. I know something he doesn't know, so I hold my ground.

"All right," He says, amusement plain in his voice. "Okay. I'm letting her go. Now what're you going to do?"

The woman stays still on the ground for several seconds, panting and looking at us with wide eyes, then she stumbles to her feet and runs. _Yeah, thanks for the help, there, sweetheart._ Fact is, I intervened to teach this imbecile a lesson, not to save her. I could never save someone like her. She may be okay this time, but another few months down the line, she'll be stuck in the same situation again. Because she can't stick up for herself. She can't say no.

"I'm giving you one last chance to walk away from this." I warn.

He laughs again. It's such an ugly sound. I'd compare him to an animal again, but that'd be doing animals an injustice. "Stop now, you're cracking me up." He says.

My anger finally reaches breaking point, and my hand goes to my belt, lovingly fondling the cool metal. The switchblade slides out with a soft shushing noise, and I'm in control. He freezes solidly in his tracks, eyes going wide, staring.

"You wanna fuck off now?" I ask pleasantly.

He doesn't do what I expect, though. Instead of turning and running away, he decides to rush at me. It takes me off-guard, and I drop the knife as he crashes into me, hurtling to the ground. That was careless of me. I've grown complacent, I realize. I'll have to remember that next time. If there is a next time.

"You're all talk, really, aren't you?" He asks, holding me down by the throat. And, okay, maybe this time my luck really has run out, but I refuse to go down without a fight. I refuse to be her, to be that other woman who just lies there and lets it happen. After all, I can't say I didn't bring this on myself. Can't say I didn't go looking for trouble. That's part of the thrill, knowing that every night it could end up like this. I thrive on the danger, the risk.

His hand slides up my thigh, inside my skirt, and I bite and kick and claw and scratch and curse. I refuse to go down without a fight, and fighting's what I do best. He leans down to kiss me, and I spit in his face.

"Bitch." He snarls. He has a very limited vocabulary. His wandering hand has now gone up inside my shirt, squeezing my breast, while the other one grabs at his zipper. And I'm not scared, but all I can think is 'fuck, this is humiliating'.

And then, suddenly, he's gone, leaving me on my back staring at the stars and wondering what the hell just happened. I can hear muffled grunts of pain somewhere off to my left, and I sit up to see what's going on. I can just about make out two shapes, fighting with each other. Not wanting to be left out, I pick up my knife from the ground and hurry over. Surprisingly - refreshingly - the new voice is female.

"Now get lost, and don't touch another woman again. You got that?" She asks, sounding just slightly out of breath.

The guy stupidly opens his mouth, about to reply - then he sees me.

"I got careless before. It won't happen again. Want to try your luck against two of us?"

He stares at us dumbly for a moment, then turns tails and runs away into the night. Coward. Stupid dumb animal, stray dog, run away when bitten.

I turn to study my - it makes me sick to say this - _rescuer_. First thing I notice is she's holding a knife, almost identical to mine. She's small, petite, I guess would be the right word, quite a bit shorter than me, and curvy, though she's definitely not fat. I can tell that despite her size, she's got the kind of spirit and aggression in her that few men possess. Her hair is dark, black, and similar in style to mine, but a lot shorter. Her cheeks are flushed, face smeared with make-up, and she's got this wicked glint in her eye.

I think she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. It's like I've suddenly found the other half of my soul, someone who is actually like me.

"Well?" She drawls, putting her knife back in her belt. "Ain't you gonna say thank-you? For me savin' your dignity, an' all?"

"Fuck off. I didn't ask to be saved, did I? I could've handled that by myself, didn't need you to interfere."

Instead of being offended, like most people probably would, she just looks amused. Which irritates me even more. "Yeah, I bet you could, Pretty. You were all over it, I could tell."

She sits down in the grass, and I just blink at her stupidly. For the first time in my life, I don't know what to say. 'Pretty'? Did she just call me 'Pretty'? No-one's ever called me that before, 'cause they know that if they did, I'd knock their teeth out. There's something so fearless about this girl, she's arrogant and patronizing and condescending and I hate her already, but at the same time I need more of her. Because she's like me.

"You got a name?" She asks as I join her on the ground. I _don't _have a name, as a matter of fact, so I make one up.

"Ultra. I'm Ultra."

"Yeah, 'course you are," She snorts, "And I'm Neon. Pleased to meet you."

She sticks her hand out mockingly, and I grit my teeth but take it anyway, repelled and attracted at the same time. She's right, I realize, she _is _Neon, everything about her bright and glowing and so far beyond my comprehension that I know it's pointless to even try and work her out. The only thing I can do is hold on, and hope she takes me with her.

- - - - - X - - - - -

_And I won't hold you back  
__Let your anger rise  
__And we'll fly,  
__And we'll fall,  
__And we'll burn  
__No-one will recall  
__No-one will recall._

The first time we make love, it's rough, passionate and violent, like everything else we do. It's after a gig, one of our first. When we make music together, we're electric, spellbinding, hypnotizing. There's over a thousand pairs of eyes in this room, every single one of them focused on us and us alone. We're on fire. Red hot coals, make us dance.

When we finish, we're high. High on drugs, high on music, high on life. Then something goes wrong. I'm not sure what, exactly, something stupid. A man asks me an innocent question, and Neon reads too much into it. Always paranoid. We travel the cab journey to the hotel in silence, but as soon as we're alone, it all blows up. Neon goes to slap me, but I grab her wrist before she can make contact with my cheek, and we both freeze, staring at each other, breathing heavily. I see something in her eyes that I've never seen before, something I've been wanting to see ever since I first laid eyes on her - desire, thick and heavy, lust, hunger for me, smouldering away, turning her irises almost black.

Something in me snaps, and I pull her around, push her forcefully into the wall. She moans, and the noise sends a frisson of electricity up my spine. Neon's always the dominant one, always in control. It's somewhat gratifying to have the tables turned for a change.

"Do you really think," I hiss through clenched teeth, "That I would've wasted my time with anyone else while you were here all this time?"

Without waiting for an answer, I seal my mouth over hers. The kiss is messy and desperate, teeth clashing together and tongues wrestling for the upper hand. In many ways, it's more of a fight than a display of affection. She reaches up and tangles her hands in my hair, pulling hard, and despite her compromising position up against the wall, she's giving back as good as she's got, bucking and writhing against me. I lower my head to kiss and lick and suck at her neck. She gives a breathy little gasp, and I change the dynamic, sinking my teeth in, wanting to hear her scream. She _doesn't_ scream yet, not quite, but her moans get louder and I know there's still time.

I release her suddenly and pull her from the wall, shoving her down hard on the bed and thanking whoever's listening that this is a hotel room and there's no stairs to contend with. I come to land on top of her, knees either side of her waist, and pause for just a moment, gazing down at her beneath me. Her chest is heaving up and down and her eyes are wide, her face smeared in bright make-up and mottled with the vibrant blue shade of my own lipstick. In that moment, she looks like the embodiment of everything we stand for - aggression, passion, and living each day like it's the fucking last one you'll ever have - and she's never looked more beautiful.

Then she gets impatient, jerking her hips up against mine roughly, reminding me to get back down to business. I don't bother with undoing the buttons on her artfully graffiti'd white shirt, instead pulling out my knife and slicing the fabric open. The blade opens a shallow wound in her skin as well, and the blood wells up in a neat line, flowing down between the valley of her breasts. I lap it up with my tongue and then push the rest of the torn material off her shoulders, exposing her fully. She isn't wearing a bra, and I lower my head again to tease at her nipple, enticing it into hardness. She moans and gasps and arches her back, pushing herself further into my mouth whilst holding my head down with her hand.

When I pull back, I stare down at the patterns of blue and green and pink and orange made by my make-up on her pale skin. I make another shallow cut with the knife, and watch in fascination as the cheerful crimson joins the bright, Crayola colours, mixing and running together beneath the silver steel. Day-Glo switchblade.

"Just hurry up and fuck me, will you?" She demands, growing more and more frustrated. And who am I to resist a plea like that? I slide my hand under her skirt and yank down her underwear, feeling that she's already wet for me. I slip one finger up inside of her, slowly, gently, and she groans lowly in irritation.

"Stop being so bloody gentle, I'm not made of china."

I grit my teeth, annoyed that she can still wind me up even now, and forcibly shove another two fingers in to join the first, ramming them up hard. Neon moans gutturally and throws her head back, nails raking at my spine.

"Much better." She says breathlessly. I smile ironically and pull out of her, moving my hand up to finger her clit instead. It doesn't take long before she's gasping and shuddering beneath me, and I know she's close.

"Say my name." I tell her. She bites her lip and says nothing. She's not in control anymore, and she hates it, even as she gets off on it.

"Say it."

"For fuck's sake…"

"Say it."

"Oh, God… Ultra!" She doesn't just say it, she practically screams it as she comes hard, writhing and bucking beneath me. After a few seconds, it's all over, and she just lays there, gasping for breath. Then she looks up at me with a wicked smile.

"Your turn."

As it turns out, 'my turn' doesn't last for very long - five minutes later and I'm clutching at her hair and shrieking her name as I climax so hard, I see stars. When my vision clears again, she's just lying on the bed and looking at me with that smug smile on her face.

"Not bad, Pretty."

The nickname's stuck, and I hate it. I asked her once whether it was because of my hair colour, and she just shrugged in that Neon-like way she has. I threatened to dye it black, and she laughed and told me that if I did, she'd be leaving me, she didn't want us to look like fucking identical twins. I didn't really take her seriously, but I left it blonde anyway. Just in case.

"Not bad? It was fucking amazing, don't try and deny it."

"Not bad." She insists again, smirking. She takes a cigarette from the packet by the bed and lights it, taking a long drag before blowing the smoke out slowly. "Biggest compliment you're likely to get, so you may as well take it."

I smack her with the pillow, knowing that she's loving this. Now that the sex is over, she's back in control again, back in her comfort zone. And she's making me pay. She yawns and stretches idly, leaning over to pick up one of the information booklets left oh-so-thoughtfully by the hotel on the bedside table.

"Anything on pay-per-view?" I ask, not remotely interested.

"Bonnie and Clyde's on." She says, taking the cigarette from between her lips and offering it to me.

"Good film." I comment, taking a drag. And it is - one of my favourites. "We're a bit like Bonnie and Clyde, ain't we? 'Cept we don't rob banks. And we're lesbians."

"Yeah, whatever." She doesn't sound like she's actually _agreeing_, just like she can't be bothered arguing. "So long as you're Clyde."

This time when I whack her, I don't bother using the pillow.

- - - - - X - - - - -

_This is the last time I'll abandon you  
__And this is the last time I'll forget you  
__I wish I could._

About two years after we meet, and we find ourselves speeding through London in a Porsche convertible that Neon 'liberated' (her word; I prefer 'stole') from some rich bastard who didn't know how to treat his wife. Maybe he'll think twice before he hits her next time, after he remembers the girl who landed him in intensive care. And then stole his car.

Really, I think, the Bonnie and Clyde metaphor has gone too far, now. We're flying down the motorway in a stolen car, with the roof down and the wind blowing our hair out behind us. It's exhilarating, though, the same thrill I used to get from beating up muggers and rapists in the park. I still indulge in that hobby from time to time, but we work as a tag-team now, Neon and me, and that makes the whole thing a little more efficient, and a little less risky.

After a while of driving around pointlessly in the suburbs and the lesser-populated areas of the city, we stumble across a zoo. It's so small and dilapidated that it would have been easy to miss, but Neon sees it with those keen eyes of hers, and suggests we go. I have no idea why, but I can't think of reason not to, either, so we do. And, as luck would have it, we meet two guys, the biggest pair of morons I ever met.

Vince is pretty but stupid, the kind of guy you could easily take advantage of.

And Howard - Howard is so nondescript and anonymous, he's barely worth mentioning. He's clearly the brains of the two, but he doesn't have a single interesting feature.

Anyway, these two guys, Vince and Howard, they fuck up our band. So we should fuck up them. That's my thinking, anyway - an eye for an eye, and all that. But Neon's having none of it, and for the first time since I've known her, I'm actually furious with her. Because she's acting like all those other dumb girls, like the woman I saved from getting raped on the night I met her, the ones who don't stand up for themselves and fight back. That's just not how we work. That's not how _Neon _works, as far as I'm aware, but the fact that she shows her softer side - the side that she's only supposed to show _me_ - to a pair of zookeepers with a penchant for destruction… well, that stings.

"Why," I ask through gritted teeth that night, once we're back at our hotel of the moment, "_Why_ didn't we stab them up?"

Neon just glances at me sideways, and smiles a mysterious little smile. "Didn't they remind you of us?"

I pretend to think about this for a second, secretly wondering whether she hit her head and I don't know about it. "No, actually. No, they didn't."

"Really?" Neon looks surprised, and maybe a little disappointed that I don't get it. Which makes me feel guilty, and then angry again. She has no business, making me feel guilty. "The little one - Vince - I saw a lot of myself in him."

I'm literally speechless. I never thought I'd see the day when Neon would compare herself to someone so unworthy.

"Have you finally lost you fucking mind?" I ask her. "That rock ponce was a vain, conceited little twat with just about enough brains to fill a thimble, who thinks with exactly one part of his anatomy. And it ain't his head, that's for sure."

Neon laughs indulgently, and I really, r_eally _want to kill her for making me feel like a child. "That's because he's a _man, _Ultra. They're all like that. You really don't see it?" I shake my head. "I suppose we'll just have to agree to disagree, then."

I nod along and say no more, but I can't help dwelling on the fact that this is the first time we've ever disagreed about _anything._ And maybe that shouldn't bother me so much.

But it does.

- - - - - X - - - - -

_Look to the stars  
__Let hope burn in your eyes  
__And we'll love,  
__And we'll hope,  
__And we'll die  
__All to no avail  
__All to no avail._

When I hear the gunshot, it feels as though time has frozen, standing still. Then I see Neon on the ground, and my shock turns into fury, which in turn becomes adrenaline. I chase after the kid and wrestle the gun from him, shooting him at point-blank range, right between the eyes. Bang, bang. Dead. It's a much cleaner, quicker death than he deserves. He should have been made to suffer. But I've got no time for him now, because Neon, my Neon, needs me.

The bullet's gone deep in her shoulder, blood spreading into the ground all around her, and for all my attitude, I ain't no doctor, and I don't know what to do. It's so pointless. Stupid. This punk'd been trying to take advantage of his girlfriend, so we thought we'd teach him a thing or two. Just the normal routine. We didn't know he'd freak. We didn't know he'd pull a gun. But he did, and now Neon is paying the price. I kneel on the floor beside her and cradle her head in my lap, stroking her hair. She's still conscious - just - but she screams in agony when I try to move her.

I think that's when I realize she's not gonna make it.

"Oh, God, Neon, come on baby, talk to me. It's gonna be okay, you're gonna be okay."

She looks at me, the way she's looked at me a million times before, as though she can see right through me, right into my soul. In that moment, it feels like she can. X-ray, laser vision, burning straight through me.

"You always told me that you never lie." She hisses through the pain. "Don't you dare start now. I ain't gonna be okay, this hurts like a bitch. I'm dyin', Ultra."

"Oh, God…" My voice wavers and chokes, catching on the jagged edges of words I never wanted to say. "I'm so sorry, baby… I'm so, so sorry."

"Don't apologize, I got no regrets. We had a good time, didn't we?"

I try to smile through the tears, but I get the feeling it just comes out as a twisted grimace, warping my face. "Yeah. We did."

"Good. Now stop crying, Pretty. You'll ruin that tough girl image you work so hard to keep up."

"Oh, shit…" I let out a fresh sob at the familiar nickname, detested so much until now, when I know I'll never hear it again. I try so hard to stop it but I can't hold back the tide. "I fucking love you, you know that?"

"Don't be getting all sentimental on me, now."

We lapse into silence, save for the sound of my crying, and for a second I think she's gone. But no, she's still there. Just looking at me. Her eyelids begin to flutter, and I tap her cheek desperately. She can't go, not yet.

"Neon?"

"Yeah?" Her voice is just a whisper, now.

"Ain't you scared?"

"Nah. Not really." She smiles. "Maybe death won't be so bad. Then again, I'm probably goin' to hell."

I let out a broken laugh that quickly degenerates into yet more sobbing as she coughs, horrible hacking noises that bring blood flowing from her mouth. It's wrong, she shouldn't die like this, she should die beautiful and perfect and unbroken. Hell, she shouldn't die at all.

"Oh, fuck. Don't leave me, Neon, don't do this to me. I can't live without you."

"Shut up, yes you can. You'll find someone else." She sighs quietly, bites her lip. "Ultra…?"

"Yeah?"

"You know what you said before? About loving me? Well, I… I feel the same way, okay?"

And suddenly I'm angry. It's wrong, I know, but I can't help it. I'm angry because even now, even when she's _dying_, she's a being a stubborn bitch.

"Fuck, Neon, would it kill you to just say the goddamn words?"

"Yeah. But I'm gonna die anyway, so what the hell? … I love you, Ultra."

The words die on her lips as her eyes close for the last time. And I howl and rage and scream at the sky, raging and cursing at the unfairness of life before weeping bitterly over her lifeless body and dragging the blade of my own knife over my arm again and again.

But it doesn't bring her back.

- - - - - X - - - - -

_This is the last time I'll abandon you  
__And this is the last time I'll forget you  
__I wish I could._

I kind of float through the funeral in a haze. I feel numb. Empty. It's in a fucking church, for one thing. There's irony for you. Neon wasn't religious, she never believed in a God of any kind. She'd hate this kind of send-off, all formal and upright and proper, but I don't know what else to do, so I go along with it.

I listen through what seems to be a never-ending tunnel as her parents deliver the eulogy, sobbing and holding one another brokenly. Her parents, who claim to have so much love for their daughter, but who never really _knew _her, not really. They didn't know that Neon's favourite colour was orange or that her favourite band was The Cure. They didn't know that she was a fighter, someone who would stand up for what they believed in, no matter what. Someone who, in the end, gave her _life_ for what she believed in.

I'm aware of all the disapproving glances I'm getting, sitting here in my stilettos and my ripped up clothes, but I don't pay them any attention. I know her relatives blame me for leading Neon astray. _Me _leading _her _astray - the notion makes me want to laugh, in a sickening way.

I'm relieved when the service is over, and we all file out of the church. I'm not sure how much longer I could've sat there, listening to all that talk from people who think they're smart, who think they know everything, when actually they know _nothing_ at all. Then I see _him, _in the courtyard, leaning against the wall as if he was just waiting to meet his mates there, and my blood seems to freeze in my veins.

Vince fucking Noir.

It's been a long time since I've seen him, and he's changed. His hair is darker, his cheekbones sharper, and his eyes older, but I never forget a face, and his is a particularly unforgettable one. He might as well be the Angel of Death, standing outside the church with his black hair and his cowboy boots and his leather jacket. I march over to him at the exact same time as he seems to see me.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" I demand, not in the mood for small talk.

He shrugs. "I was in the area. I'm sorry about your friend."

My anger suddenly reaches breaking point. "Sorry? You're _sorry?! _You didn't _know _her."

"No, I didn't." He agrees reluctantly. "But I know I owe her my life. You would've killed me, if she'd let you. But she didn't."

That's true, actually, and I suddenly realize how much guts it must have taken for him to come here, knowing that. Knowing that this time, Neon wouldn't be here to stop me from gutting him head to toe.

"Whatever. How did you know, anyway?"

"Magic." He replies simply. I really, really want to fucking kill him right then, and I think he realizes, because he raises his hands a little and says; "I'm not messing with you. It really _was _magic. There are some things in my life that I really don't understand."

And I still want to kill him, but maybe not quite so much now. Because for the first time ever, I see what Neon was getting at all those years back. He _is _like her. He has that same spark, that same lust for life, only in him it's diminished slightly, faded, dulled over the years by things I don't know or particularly care about. Neon's light never went out, it kept on burning right till the very end.

"You loved her." He says. It isn't a question.

"How did you know?"

Another shrug, another sigh. Whatever life has done to him, it's made him grow up. "I'm good at reading people."

I can't help but snort at the irony in this statement. "Good at reading other people, maybe; totally clueless when it comes to your own life."

Now it's his turn to be confused. "What are you talking about?"

I put a hand on his arm, force him to stop walking and turn around and look at me. Maybe the gesture should have been too intimate, with someone I barely know, but we're united on the common ground of grief and heartbreak now.

"Does Howard know?"

"Know what? That I'm here? No, he probably thinks I'm getting off my face in some club somewhere."

"That's not what I asked. Does Howard know that you love him?"

What little colour he has drains from his face, and he begins to talk at a mile a minute. "No, he doesn't know, he _can't _know, he'd never forgive me, never speak to me again. Not that we do anyway. I mean, we talk, we talk all the time, but we never really _talk _anymore…" He trails off suddenly and looks at me, as if he's only just remembered I'm there. "Shit. I'm sorry. You don't need to hear about my problems."

He's right - I really don't, but all the same I can't help what I say next. "Tell him. You'll regret it if you don't. Life's too short to second-guess everything, take it from someone who knows."

He nods, very slowly, and I think that maybe, I just _might_ have gotten through to him. I fold my arms abruptly, letting the mask fall back into place. "Now tell me, really - why are you _here, _Vince. And don't give me any of that 'I was in the area' crap, either. Why are you _really _here?"

He sighs sadly. "I don't know. Maybe I just wanted to do something worthwhile, for once in my life. You're right - I didn't know Neon, not really. But what I did know of her, I liked. She reminded me of me."

His words echo Neon's from almost three years previously, and it feels as though her ghost is speaking to me. I can feel forbidden tears welling up in my eyes, and the next thing I know Vince has enveloped me in a strange and unforeseen hug, and I don't know what to do. I've never had a friend before.

Before I met Neon, I didn't need any.

When I was with Neon, I didn't want any.

But now it's life AN, After Neon, and I don't know _what _I need, or _what _I want, all I know is that I have to get out of this situation before I break completely. So I shove him away roughly. He staggers back on his heels, and looks a little hurt, a little upset, but he seems to understand. He smiles very, very sadly, and it's like the sun being eclipsed.

"Goodbye, Ultra." He says softly, and in that moment, I know that he knows. He knows it's not just a 'see you again soon' type goodbye, it's a 'see you in the next life' type goodbye. Of course he knows. How could he not?

Because Vince is like Neon, and Neon knew that I wouldn't be able to go on if she left me. And Vince knows because Neon knew. Because Vince is like Neon.

Or maybe it's much simpler than that. Maybe it's just that, if he were in my situation, and Howard was the one who was dead, then he wouldn't want to go on living, either.

I don't know.

I don't really care anymore, either.

"Goodbye," I say. He nods once, turns around, and walks away. But some of the old bounce is back in his step, and I can't help thinking that, just maybe, I've done one last bit of good for the world before I leave it.

When I get back to my latest stolen car, I open the glove compartment and pull out the gun that killed Neon, the one I kept after I shot that kid.

I hate guns. I always have. Any coward can use a gun to kill someone, one pound of pressure and it's all over. You don't even need to look at your victim as you end their life, so long as you know it's pointing in the right direction. Knives are much more intimate. To stab someone with a knife, you have to really put your strength behind it. You have to feel the blade slipping through skin and muscle and sinew, the warmth of the blood spilling over your hands. You have to really want someone dead, to kill them with a knife.

So, yeah, I much prefer knives to guns. But it's a gun that killed Neon, so it's a gun that'll kill me. This isn't just about me, after all. This is about _us. _We're Bonnie and Clyde, we're Romeo and Juliet, we're every other fucking forbidden, tragic love story out there, and everyone knows how forbidden love turns out.

As I press the cool metal of the barrel against my temple and cock the hammer back, I wonder who'll be at _my _funeral. I don't expect the turnout to be much bigger than Neon's was. My parents; God, it's been so long since I last saw them. A few old flames who never quite got over me, some friends, ex-bandmates; Johnny Two-Hats, Vince maybe. Neon won't be there like I was for hers, and I can't help feeling a little bit annoyed with her for that.

I wonder if they'll bury me next to her. It'd be nice if they did, but it doesn't matter, not really. No matter where our bodies are, our spirits will be together, in the stars. For the rest of eternity, I'll be with her.

My Neon light.

My Day-Glo switchblade.

_This is the last time I'll abandon you  
__And this is the last time I'll forget you  
__I wish I could  
__I wish I could._

**A/N: **I seriously do not know where this stuff comes from. I am clearly a warped individual. I was thinking about doing a sequel to this, with Vince going back home after the funeral, but I don't know. What do you think?

Reviews fuel my addiction. And you wouldn't want to give me withdrawal, would you?


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